


And So Did Lugalbanda

by solarpillar (solarwind)



Series: Enkidu didn't die [3]
Category: The Epic of Gilgamesh
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarwind/pseuds/solarpillar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the endless sand and dust there is an ocean, waiting, their stories finished, but continue to be whispered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So Did Lugalbanda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sazandorable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sazandorable/gifts).



There is no cattle in the Irkalla, for cattle is not of Qingu's blood. They are not slaves. Food, perhaps, but not slave. They roam under Anu's gaze, and Ninsun rules over them.

There is no sky in Irkalla, only a roof of dust. There is no Ninsun, her wisdom or her fair breasts. He remembers how she wore jewels over her chests, to make them fair, but how can cold stones match the beauty of a mother and a queen? He remembers how he placed his head between her breasts, listening to her advices and stories, her wisdom as wide as her father and her voice as sweet as her great grand father.

His father, his mortal father, whose life was not as long as his consort's, rests in Irkalla as well. A rotten thing, grey as smashed clay.

 _My son_ , the father says, a mouthful of dust spilled.

The son nods, and the father's face beamed in a parting of rotten dust. It appalled Gilgamesh, the king so used to see beauty in vigour of life.

 _You've grown so strong_ , the old pile of dust says, _a solid old bull._

Above Gilgamesh, the river seems to laugh in mockery.

Gilgamesh is two-third god. Unlike men who rot in days, Gilgamesh rots slowly, his dust not grey, but as well-walked roads of Uruk, yellow from Shamash's warmth. In his life the king has prayed to Shamash for safety and victories, in death he lies in cold river bed, away from light and heat of his patron god, away from Ninsun's wisdom and Enkidu's embrace.

Lugalbanda, the once young-king, is a pile of dust. A shepherd-king, holy and worshipped, but a man worshipped makes no god. Only blood matters, and Qingu's cursed blood flows in them all. Gilgamesh is no different. But in Irkalla mankind's dust pools and rests, like bitter water waiting, like Tiamat resurrecting.

 _Father_ , king Gilgamesh says to the greyed king, _tell me your story._

He has heard it from the lips of Ninsun a hundred times, but again he will hear, from the hero and father himself.

In sweet and bitter dust of Irkalla, men are not alone. Under the endless sand and dust there is an ocean, waiting, their stories finished, but continue to be whispered.


End file.
